


In Support of Buttons

by Writer_47



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-19 04:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29745159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writer_47/pseuds/Writer_47
Summary: Set during Season 2's 'Hunting'.Gerri's thoughts as events unfold during the retreat to Hungary.
Relationships: Gerri Kellman/Roman "Romulus" Roy
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	In Support of Buttons

_‘I have lost myself. I am not here.’_

* * *

She’s cooler than this. Level-headed and sensible. She doesn’t get crushes, that’s for sure. And she certainly doesn’t crush over younger men, and never under any circumstances the boss’ son. She’s not a fucking moron.

Everything that could possibly be wrong with this, is.

Everything that could possibly fuck up her life is here, in this.

That’s not to say she isn’t sensitive to a good-looking man. She’s sixty, she’s not dead below the waist. She can appreciate a fine-looking actor in his thirties, or when there’s somebody new in the office, finely chiselled and that whole dark smouldering thing going. She could go for that. She wouldn’t, but she could.

But fuck. Roman Roy?

He’s spindly. He’s loud. He’s annoying. He acts like he’s fucking twelve and never had an education. He can’t keep any thought in his head. He’s impulsive and excitable and such an absolute, prime position asshole. The epitome of the spoilt idiot brat.

So why. After ruminating on all of that and coming out the other side – why?

He makes her laugh though. Smile when she isn’t meant to.

Maybe that’s all it is – attraction of the mind, not the body. 

And that’s fine, she’s no fool, she can recognise that okay; out there in Japan they spent a hell of a lot of time alone together and he made her laugh. Every day. And she enjoyed that, because she has a great sense of humour when she gets the opportunity to indulge it. It’s rare now, old witch-widow that she is. She works. She goes home. The odd date of a weekend. The odd fuck. But to be with someone who you were comfortable enough with to laugh until your face ached; until your stomach was crunched up and your legs pressed together? Not for a long time. Maybe never.

Then him.

It isn’t like her to pick an outfit for a man. She’s never been that person. Yet here she is, pampering herself after the day out shooting, taking her time when applying her make-up. Deciding she needs to show more of her face so pinning back bits of her hair in order to… _in order to what?_ _Look more feminine? Appeal to him?_

What a fucking idiot.

She takes her time though, touching her own face, close against the mirror so she can see it all. She doesn’t think she looks too bad, her skin is still mostly smooth, her eyes still bright. The odd line, but nothing awful. And with enough coverage she can disguise it. Shades of pink eyeshadow and more eye-liner and mascara than she’d wear day-to-day.

The black lace of her underwear makes her stop and stare at her body in the mirror. Where her tummy is rounded and her hips flair. But her breasts are still neat and tidy (she never breast-fed) and her legs are good. In heels she has a nice shape, she thinks anyway. If that isn’t too vain, and she’s never been one for vanity.

A calf-length black dress, she worries it might look dowdy, matronly, but no it’s actually alright. This skirt that flairs slightly and would spin if she twirled – she remembers doing that as a girl, dancing, spinning. The single pearl on a silver chain, pearls at her ears, and then the pièce de resistance move of the blush pink shawl. It brings her face to life. She likes the way it skims her body; she likes that it makes her look womanly, warm and curvaceous.

Her cheeks flush pink and she pats them as she stares at herself in the mirror.

It’s been a very long time since she dressed and hoped a man would notice her.

A long time since thinking of a man left her damp between her thighs, a quick rush of heat as she briefly imagines him removing the shawl. Every inch of her being uncovered. Unwrapped.

But who is she kidding? It was before the trip to Japan. The wedding, his stupid idiotic rocket stunt. At the bar, joking with him over Martinis, and he was flirting – she knew flirtation and he was definitely flirting. This frisson of something forbidden between them. For him, probably just fun, likely a distraction from the doldrums of the day. Weddings can drag after all. But he’d turned up with some statuesque blonde so why he wasted time of his evening flirting at the bar with her was anybody’s guess. And then, when he’d walked away, she’ll never know what possessed her but she turned and stared. She watched him walk away, she looked him up and down and actually found herself checking his body.

Mentally she must have shaken herself because she turned around again just as quickly to avoid being seen.

Foolish woman, flirting with danger.

She slips on her heels, heads to dinner.

*

She looks tired?! She looks fucking tired! There she was thinking she’d made an effort and looked passably good and he tells her she looks tired? It’s a good job she’s not the kind of woman to take things to heart, instead she would have liked to have told him he looks an old bastard but there are some lines even she can’t cross. Besides, she’s got to be careful of late. Jaime is around far more than he used to be, and since Logan put her down as ‘successor’ he’s been different with her, as if the confidante role has shifted.

She side-steps minefields.

_Is it obvious?_

She asks herself this casually, as she meanders around the side of the table, half watching Tom and Logan, but all-too-much distracted. Roman is looking at her, sucking on his whisky, holding the back of the top chair, but he’s looking at her, as if beckoning her over without saying a word, without lifting a finger. And she goes.

_Is it obvious she had no intention of heading elsewhere?_

There’s a nervous anticipation in the pit of her stomach; Christ, she’s not like this, she doesn’t do this or feel like this. And as he’s talking to her – some shit about the shield on the wall – her mind is drifting and it feels so hot in the room with the open fire and the Champagne and she has this tightening in her lower stomach and it takes her until after the toast to realise this is lust. Of all the things in the world, of all the people, she’s standing next to this kid who pisses her off most days and thinking about what it would be like to have his tongue between her thighs.

It makes her tingle. She hasn’t felt lust in a while, not really, not the deep dangerous kind that makes your head swirl and your pulse thready. Like being on a highwire, a rollercoaster, adrenaline building, the sweet heady draw of excitement.

She forgets where she is. Is standing closer to him that she ought to.

She is glad when Karl and Cyd approach them, glad of the mundanity of Karl’s voice as he drones, because maybe then the unbidden thoughts will retreat and find some cave to crawl into, a cave to slither into.

She’s too old and far too sensible to be contemplating any kind of sexual entanglement with him. And even if she did admit her attraction, he’s twenty years younger, why would he even be bothered with her beyond the imbroglio of flirtation?

But he’s flirting.

This is still flirting.

She’s dated a fair amount of men since her husband’s death. And even the ones she’s not dated, even those who just accost her at weddings or corporate bloody galas – she knows flirting. And he’s surprisingly good at it. Or maybe her bar is set too low at present; it’s been a while after all, what with everything at Waystar she’s barely had time to see her friends let alone screw around.

Easy banter. Laughter. The way he stares right into her eyes as if she’s the only person in the room and slides his hand across the back of that chair until she can feel the heat from his fingertips near hers and she wonders again, mind creeping, of his hands on her body. His perfectly manicured fingernails, skin as fresh and pure and clear as diving into the ocean naked from a boat.

She mustn’t drink too much. She knows how Logan plays. She leaves half of her champagne, places it on a tray when nobody is watching. Takes her seat beside Roman at the table for dinner. Unplanned. The way things unfolded. Funny how they often end up that way now, side-by-side at dinner. She used to be apathetic about him. He was sometimes in a room. Sometimes in a meeting. But he’d spent a lot of time in L.A. She knew him, she just didn’t _know_ him. Now, she sits next to him at dinner, laughs at his jokes when his family is there.

There’s an easy casual way he sits which both irritates and intrigues her. How he doesn’t slip from his perch, he’s all tangled limbs, ungainly and twisting about and it makes her want to snap him to attention and tell him to sit still as he eats. The way he rests the tumbler against the palm of his hand, slides his fingers over and around it, she’s watching him do this as the first course is served and it makes her think of his palm on her breast. She somehow imagines he’d be delicate, when it came to it, there’s something of the schoolboy about him, she figures when really faced with a moment of intimacy he’d be timid, trembling fingers and tepid kisses. That he’d take his time, eyes wide with wonder as he slid his hand under her breast, rested the weight of it in his palm, as if surprised, as if touching a woman for the first time.

But these are puerile fantasies. Because she’s fully aware of who he is and in reality she figures he’ll be shit in bed. A selfish young thing who’d fuck her quickly.

She looks away, drinks a glass of water in one to cool the flush on her chest.

She wants to tell him to slow the alcohol, because Logan uses it, and he will do at some point in proceedings. She’s one of the few with red wine and she sips it slowly, waiting for the drop. Roman should know the rules of the game by now, but she doubts he’s ever really paid attention. Perhaps he never needed to. That’s the luck of the draw at being born prince-to-a-king. She didn’t come from gold, but she realises she was born lucky – Roman, Kendall, Shiv were born royal. That has its own set of hurdles but Christ it’s a damn sight better than being born poor.

Funny how she always forgets Connor. Most do. First born son, would be King. A shame really.

She laughs when she shouldn’t, indulging him when she shouldn’t. Head turning to watch him as he makes some lurid comment and it makes her toes curl in her shoes, and the ghost of a smile flitter over her face as she reaches for her wine. He’s staring at Kendall, joking with him, and she wonders fleetingly if the show is for her or Logan. Logically she knows Logan, privately she wonders if it’s a bit of both.

She’s too old and too intelligent for these games.

But fuck she keeps staring at the muscles in his forearm. Can’t help how her eyes are drawn, when he lifts his glass she watches the tendons pull tight, the youthful skin like cream she wants to lap at. When he leans over to pull some trick – his hand through the candle flame – she can smell him, masculine cologne, woody and heady combined – and when she breathes it in, deep and real, it makes something pull tight between her legs. She’s surprised by her very physical reaction, almost lets out the slightest, tiniest breath of pleasure. But it passes quickly.

The room is too hot. She’s drinking too much and drowning in the possibilities by sitting next to him and enjoying his attention being on her, being his partner in crime as they make some crass comments and pass judgements on others. It was fun to play this game with him in Japan over dinner; there’s an added hint of danger doing it here in their real world. His father just there but distracted.

When Logan rises something feels off, like suddenly she’s going to be witness to a fight and she’s never been very good with that. The hairs on her arms rise and she senses coming danger as an animal out on the Serengeti. Like she will soon be prey. Or, at the very least, she’s going to have to sit and watch the beast feed on its kill.

And just like that, her enjoyment of the night is gone. Any trace of pleasure she was riding on being by Roman’s side and relishing the hours in his company gone.

The room shrinks, is claustrophobic, as Frank takes the hits beside her, she feels her inners curl because these things never go well. She’s been there too long and seen it once too often; it might take a different form, a different name, but it’s the same beast after all. There is no blood spilled with Frank, just passing wounds, and when Roman makes some idiotic comment she frowns, glares in his direction, because she remembers all over again the kid is still too immature, despite the fact he’s not a kid anymore, and he never learns, he never watches and reads the room. He thinks of himself and his next action, that’s it, the level of maturity. He thinks he knows the world and that everyone should be better off for him being in it and in that moment she really fucking hates him. Wishes she could shake some kind of maturity and sense into him because he’s not seventeen anymore and it’s about time he grew the fuck up and realised he’s just another one of the seven billion sharing the planet, learn a lesson, have an ounce of sense.

But he doesn’t. He smirks and giggles as Logan moves about the table, stalking, intimidating, and she’s uneasy in her chair. Because she realises it could be her. It could be Roman. It could be Ken. They are a hairsbreadth away from being on the receiving end of the knife-like-tongue.

When he says her name her face falls, her legs suddenly feel heavy and she stands clumsily at the barked second instruction. She’s not sure why but momentarily everything slows and she thinks she feels Roman’s concern beside her, the giggling had ceased, and his head turned ever-so-slightly. She’s always been mentally quick, could run rings around her parents and teachers before she even turned seven. A born skill, a skill that saw her sail through law school, a skill that got her here into this room. But there’s something about Logan, even after all her years with him, you never quite know anymore which way he will flip or when.

So when her answer comes she is uncertain of it, but it’s the first thing in her head, and she speaks softly, breathy, the pads of her fingers pressed hard against the table to try and give her some grounding. But her heart is racing, and she wishes she hadn’t eaten quite so much.

When he passes on, like a steamroller on a mission, she almost flops back into her chair, drops slowly as if floating down, legs cumbersome and weighty beneath the table and there’s this sense that things can only get worse.

She wishes sometimes she could walk away. Is unsure, in moments like this, why she doesn’t.

She’s rich enough now, smart enough to move elsewhere if needed financially – which it isn’t. Something keeps her there. She wonders if it’s the same thing that draws Frank back.

Skirting the edges of the room she avoids being drawn into the pig show. Is disgusted by it really. Men and their drunken games, shows of power, mocking the other when it could have been any one of them down there. It occurs to her, as she’s watching, that the show with Logan was just that – a show, he would never have made her crawl. He knew his sacrifices from the start.

She catches Karolina’s eye across the room, the pretty slender woman knows better too, hides in the shadows, skulks in corners. They’re both too smart for all of this.

It annoys her then when Roman is front and centre filming the embarrassment. She isn’t surprised by his actions, and really, if she thought about it, she’s angrier with herself. Silly old woman, crushing on a man child who can’t function in the real world, who would wither and die without his father’s spotlight. She wants him to be more than this, thinks he can be, if he would only grow the fuck up. Take responsibility, do some work, stop playing quick fix games.

She sinks back into her chair at the table as they play, drinks more water, folds her arms and waits. It will end, all these things do, and then she can slip out and to her room, remove her make-up, shower, wash away her own stupidity. She’s embarrassed for herself, embarrassed at how she felt earlier in her room when she was dressing – choosing items so carefully, the hair, the make-up, all done (no point lying to herself now) for him.

People would laugh if they knew. Mock her. She should be wiser, that long cherished inner nub of pride in the fact she was intelligent, she was wise – a passingly handsome younger man pays her some attention and what, she turns into some dreamy idiot imagining his flat belly pressed against hers?

_Oh god_.

When it happens, the rat rooted out, that’s all she can think. _Oh god_. She’d like to help him, because his hazel eyes are wide and hopeful and she thinks all over again of how he should be more mature than he is. He’s hardly lived life. But she’d hoped he’d know better by this age. She watches events unfold with a sense of sadness, but there’s understanding there too, she figures out quicker than most why he did it. And she doesn’t judge him for that. Merely pities the fact he goes about things so piss-poorly.

“Moron,” flat from his father’s mouth, and she watches the light drain from his eyes, can almost pinpoint the moment his shoulders dropped.

“Party’s over,” Logan snaps, and she can well imagine the night is only just getting started for Roman – she lingers longer in her chair than most, but then Logan marches Roman out and Kendall follows. She glances to Frank, his years’ long mentor, and he too follows the other men but the door closes after them.

The conflicting emotions carry with her as she heads to her room, some misplaced sense of care – she shouldn’t really, it was an idiotic move to make and he should have known better. But there’s a sweetness to him, some youthful eagerness she admired in Japan. He tried so hard to fix things, to live up to expectations, and so often he got it all so very wrong.

She’s thinking on this as she showers, as she crawls into bed feeling dazed and heavy-headed, wondering how much of a punishment he’s having to take.

Outside it’s snowing, she imagines she can hear the flakes as they scatter and land, but really it is silent here. Too quiet perhaps. In the scant light she can make out the carvings on the four poster, wonders how old it is and how many couples have spent nights here wrapped together.

Things are messy now, screwed together in her head. Pursuing Roman may not be the wisest business move, in fact it could be a fucking disaster, she could be backing the wrong horse. But maybe it’s not even that, given the train of her thoughts over the past few weeks. What else is there? What else is hidden deep down between them that keeps yanking her back? She doesn’t do messy. She doesn’t do immature men with parental issues who need a fucking good kick up the ass.

She doesn’t want to be his mentor or support or cheerleader. Christ knows she’s got enough on her plate as it is.

But she can’t stop thinking about him.


End file.
